“She isn’t a monster, Jane.”
“But, Mama—”
“No, Jane. She may have acted like a monster to you, and that’s different. But do you know why she acted like one?”
Jane had shaken her head, not understanding the distinction, or what her mother wanted from her. She’d only wanted to be held and comforted. But there was that look in her mother’s eyes, the one she got when Jane asked a wrong question. It made Jane think, even then, as young as she was, that they were having two different conversations. Jane was seeing the girl who pushed her, and the park, and her mother was seeing another world entirely. But her tone had been so serious Jane hadn’t dared argue. It was the tone her mother used when she wanted Jane to learn an important lesson.
“It’s because she’s afraid.” She had pulled Jane closer, but not into the hug Jane wanted. Her mother had turned her, holding Jane against her side so Jane could see the other girl, who didn’t look afraid at all. Jane’s mother had smoothed her hair, but the gesture didn’t feel comforting, and she’d put her face right next to Jane’s like she was telling her a secret.
“She can see how brave and strong you are, and it frightens her. It’s like the Little White Bird in our stories. When he plays mean tricks on people, it’s because deep down inside he feels small. Do you understand?”
Jane hadn’t understood then, but now she thinks she might know what her mother was trying to say. Later that same night, she’d asked her mother if there was such a thing as monsters for real.
“I’m afraid so.” Her mother had said it without hesitation and Jane had startled at the answer; it hadn’t been the one she’d been expecting at all. She’d tried to twist around in her mother’s lap in the big rocking chair beside the window, but she couldn’t quite get to a place where she could see her mother’s face properly to see if she was teasing. Her mother had stroked her hair again, rocking them gently, and Jane had felt warm and safe, the way she’d wanted to before.
“What happens if I meet a real monster?” Jane asked.
“Well.” Her mother kissed the top of Jane’s head. “You have to stand up, even when you’re scared, because if you let the monsters frighten you and take away the things you love, then they win.”
Jane had felt her mother turn her head, looking out the window at the starry sky as she continued talking.
“And the problem with monsters winning, Jane, is once they do, they want to win all the time. They want to win more and more, because they’re greedy, and we can’t have that, can we?”
“No, Mama.”
Then her mother had tickled her, and Jane had forgotten all about monsters, laughing and begging her mother for a story before she went to bed.
Thinking back on it now, Jane wonders if her mother was talking about the girl who knocked Jane down, or the kind of monster that hides under beds, or maybe even the kind of monster her Uncle Michael and her father fought in the war. Maybe her mother had been talking about all three of them. Or something else entirely.
What she does know is that her mother was right—she has to stand up even though she’s scared. Because otherwise the monsters win.
“Come on.” Jane takes Timothy’s hand, glancing down at him. The trust in his eyes frightens her even more than what lies at the end of the path, but he’s counting on her. She cannot let him down. “Let’s show the monsters we aren’t afraid.”
LONDON 1921
Wendy takes a deep breath, smoothing her hands over the front of her dress, then clenching them together across her midsection, the fingers of each hand gripping the wrist of the other. All she has to do is put one foot in front of the other and walk. She made the same journey in reverse almost a year ago. Step. Breathe. Step. She walked out of St. Bernadette’s, surely she can walk back in. It can’t be that hard. This time she is a guest, a visitor. No one can hold her or keep her here.
And yet her body itches, prickling with sweat all over. Sweat that doesn’t quite emerge but remains secret, like a bruise, tucked onto the wrong side of her skin. The brick facade of St. Bernadette’s leans out toward her, and it seems only the blink of an eye since she was here last. She never left, and now the door is a mouth, tongue lolling out to swallow her whole.
She shakes her head, dislodging the thoughts, and takes a determined step forward. White stone crunches under her boot heels. She’s heard Jamieson doesn’t even work here anymore. Some illness, leaving the left side of his body weak, perhaps the same hidden illness that kept him out of the war. She wants to feel spitefully, vindictively glad, but she can’t summon either hate or pity, only apathy. Jamieson is nothing to do with her now; this isn’t her life anymore.
The sun beats down, turning the scar of the path blindingly white. Leaf-stripped branches stir overhead in a gust of wind, and puffs of condensation frost from her lips as Wendy walks toward the door. She doesn’t belong in this place; there’s nothing to be afraid of here anymore.
Her footsteps sound extremely loud as she crosses the threshold. The sudden transition from bright sunlight to the relative darkness inside throws her for a moment. She’s disoriented, and reaches a hand to steady herself.
“Miss?” A voice at her elbow, and Wendy jumps.
A nurse. A young one. No one Wendy recognizes.
“It’s Mrs.” The words come from her in
